My Way of Telling You
by RMCastle
Summary: This is a collection of stories from my life, in a fond format. I've never kept a journal in my life without tearing the pages out of it. It's time I leave something behind instead of hocking it or burning it in the fires of my future anger.
1. Introduction

So here's the thing.

I am a 16 year old girl living out my life. I haven't written a damn thing in four years without it being a really shit essay, or a really good essay. I decided most recently that I wanted to get back into the habit of writing. Something I love. I came to this horrid conclusion: what if I die and I'll never write another line in the history of this world again? (You know of course, if you believe in that whole multi-timeline theory, and how time isn't really a thing but an idea made by the mine to schedule ourselves in our daily lives.)

This really didn't come to mind, until I think, about a week ago, when I woke up with no breath in my lungs and no heart in my chest. I mean literally no breath and very truthfully, a heart that felt ripped from its strings. I guess you could say it's a novel concept, to think that your heart is being ripped out, when really it's perfectly fine beating in your chest. Maybe I'm novel. Oh well. I fear I won't live too long to know this.

In any matter, I've come to this conclusion: I am going to die, neither do I know if it is now nor years from now. I'd like to document my life in a meaningful way, and not the way you do in a journal, where you write about a crush or a then boyfriend (or girlfriend) and then promptly rip it out from the glue of your book and your mind. I mean in a way that's more permanent. Things aren't fully permanent, but I'd like the sentiment to last that I, in fact, was a thing that happened.

My life in the whole of this world feels like something, even for a girl that feels and cares about a whole lot of nothing.

So here's my story.


	2. Chapter Okay

Okay.

I am not a genius with words.

I can only imitate the sound and feel of what I desire others to hear or see.

In other-words, I'm a complicated fuck, and I've learned that it's better to have running sentences and spelling errors that have meaning, rather than concise, edited thrice over works that diminish the value of what is trying to be conveyed.

I'm not into being concerned. Especially when it comes to the idea that there are taboos that one should avoid at all costs.

Let this be a disclaimer to you as I tell you about my life right now.

Realizing my lungs were filling with fluid late last night, I decided to head down to the local convenience shop to buy myself a milkshake. Yes, this is redundant, as it was a cold night and I am clearly killing myself, but who's to say the dying woman can't have what she wishes? Regardless, after indulging in my shake, the movie theatre has just spilled its content of dry-eyed people into the eight o'clock pm empty streets. I knew very well that my friends from out of town were there and so were my currently dating best friends. I figured I might as well stay to see them. This I wish I didn't do.

Soon after I had met them all, my out of town friends had to leave (but not before giving me a wonderful cow printed plastic no-drip milk cup for a belated birthday present) which was neither too bitter nor sweet, given my lack of empathy for things. As I waved them off my dating friends were heading their way to the local cafe, where most of the teens go for a coffee and listen to foreign indie music. I joined them, and they were content with it none the less.

To put a bit of back story on this, my friends have been concerned about me for the past bit, they think that bad times have rained on me, and that I will be subject to a mass break-down of my emotional state. They wouldn't be wrong, but I'd like for them to remain in the dark, indefinitely.

Upon arrival at "Oliver's, (the hipster coffee shop based in the roots of hell) is when we came across an old friend of mine with a tragic back-story. This I shouldn't get into. Just know that this girl suffered enough that her soul aches through her tiny pearl teeth, which last night, were bore and adorned with the upwards trend of her lips. She was sitting with her other "questionable" friends.

The groups converged, and it became noisy instantaneously with dirty jokes and talks of Something-Something Watson's Hummer and decked mansion on the end of town ready for prom, which is happening this coming Thursday. Then it came along to going through photos. Which is something that I really, really, really wish I was ignorant of the knowledge.

Inside the life-proof case of my old friend's phone, written in the memory key inside, were photos of her and a girl I liked smoking pot.

Now, mind you this wasn't a big issue, I don't do drugs, my friends do. Fine. They tell me what's up, and what they've been doing. Fine. But the girl that I liked, she lied to me.

She told me that she had done it once on new- years, with some guy named Matt, which I was fine with. Little did I know that this whole time she's been doing it for months? Sneaking out of her house in the dead of the night; drinking her face off and getting higher than the damn clouds. Then I was done. But not before leaving did I notice my old friend slipping her questionable ones thirty dollars while they left on the phone with the hushed words "20 grams" slipping out of their mouths and violating my ears.

Then I left.

And I fell to the pavement coughing out the rest of my liquefied horror.


	3. Chapter Digital

My mother quit her job as an English teacher, to be one with me. She spent every day of her life in devotion of my care. I find this slightly amazing. I feel as though it might be a bit of an unhealthy attachment, but when everything eating your mothers mind and memory is unhealthy, it's more of a sedative. I believe this because I feel people shouldn't get so close to one another, just close enough.

Breathing space is hard to find in this world, and it seems like the collective idea of the human race is to grow closer and closer, when our grandparents built the skyscrapers to keep us at distance. So that maybe, we would crave connectivity.

See, I also think a lot of the way people used to be in terms of personality and kindness, has been murdered by the millennial age. I'm sick of texting. But my mother isn't. She finds the new, very efficient. Don't get me wrong, it is, but it's sad to walk into a playground of texting mothers, with no regard or interaction for their children.

Why, the other day I watched a little girl, maybe three or four beg her mother to push her on the swing. The mother stared at her phone, gestured for the child to sit in the swing and wait for her. It took nearly eight minutes for the mother to finally finish the message, and frown at her child. As she walked over, she pushed her daughter with one hand, facing the other direction. I watched this for my entire lunch period, as that poor child whined and cried for her mother attention, and how sad I can imagine it would be to have all that attention focused on a series of tiny electrodes in a pretty plastic case.

Coming back to the point, I wasn't really making, parenting within the last ten years I would say, has suffered too many days of neglect. Children take to technology just as much as their parents do, and soon we'll all be run by a nation of people who use simple quadratics to assist the agitated avian species. Digitally, of course.


End file.
